Blood Poison
by Smizzlemort
Summary: 'The sixteen-year-old boy who won the Quarter Quell must have had people he loved-family, friends, a sweetheart maybe-that he fought to get back to.' No tribute has ever left their home without someone mourning their departure. But treason must be dealt with and unfortunately, that dark haired boy from the Seam never really returned to anyone. PLEASE R & R!
1. Victor

**Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters that the reader may recognise to have originated from the Hunger Games Trilogy created by Suzanne Collins.**

**AN: MUST READ! Ok, i am sensing that many of you have found/are finding this confusing. Just so you know, the italics are Haymitch's flashbacks, the random quote is President Snow and the few description-y bits are just what's happening at present. it looked much better in my head i assure you, like a movie sequence if you get what i mean. A bit like the opening for HP 6.**

**Also, the POV of the chapter or that particular section will be written in the top left corner. **

**Anyway, now that that's cleared up...**

* * *

'_All that glitter and all that gold  
Won't buy you happy  
When you've been bought and sold.'-Rebecca Ferguson_

* * *

_-Haymitch-_

Chapter 1

-Victor-

"Do you know why I do what I do, Victor?"

The glitter dances before my eyes, twirling and shimmering as they waltz in downward spirals. The brilliant flashes of their cameras blind me, their screams echoing in my ears.

_He yelps, writhing in my grip as he begs me to spare him. I hold the knife against his throat, pressing the blade harder against the soft skin. _

_It's actually quite amusing, the way the tables have turned. Just moments ago he had been leering at me, throwing taunts at me as he had attempted to slash my guts out. Now look at him, simpering and broken, at the mercy of my bloodied hands. _

_I ball my fist in his hair, making sure that I have an iron grip. I yank back his impressive head and without hesitation, I plunge the dagger deep into his chest. I hold it there for a moment, actually savouring the sound of his dying gurgles, and rip the blade down. The result is spectacular; blood spurts into all sort of different directions and cracked bits of his rib cage fly into the air. _

_The cannon fires, its boom echoing in the Arena. _

_I stand back, never feeling so empowered in my life. _

"Why I place you in an Arena?"

His voice slides into my ears, the greasy words coating my canal and pounding along its walls. His fingers skim along the shoulders of my jacket, making their way down to the flower imbedded in the lapel; a bright yellow dandelion. He frowns as he nudges it slightly with his long fingers, forcing it to stand upright.

_The rain falls heavily, the drops heavy and condensed. Thunder pounds in the distance, lightening striking in odd and uncalculated places. I watch as one particular bolt lands in dense forest not far from my current position. A fire immediately ignites and I can hear someone screaming. _

_I bet the Capitol citizens are watching with waging tongues. _

_It lasts for a while, this dying tribute's cries. _

_I get the image that the poor kid's probably caught on fire, their clothes burning and sticking to their skin. It doesn't take long before another cannon fires. _

_I secretly hope it's one of the Careers, but the chances of that are unlikely._

_Silence follows, and for a few minutes I am left to my own thoughts. I squeeze my limbs even tighter, hoping to bring out the last ounces of warmth I have. I have no idea how long the Gamemakers will make this last, and I have no idea how long my makeshift mud cave will last me. _

_I suddenly hear the crunching of twigs and undergrowth and instantly, I snap my head up. I recede further into my cave, hoping to remain out of sight but still able to see what's going on. _

_A figure falls through the heavy bush, falling flat onto their face. I can hear them groan and from the high tones and pitches, I can tell that it's a girl. She resurfaces, leaning against a tree as she catches her breath. She is clutching her stomach, and though my vision is blurred, I can see that it is a formidable wound. The rain clears for about a second, and in that time I can see who it is. _

_Laurel. _

_I can tell from her dark Seam hair, and tanned Seam skin. Her eyes are almost black in the near-darkness. _

_I watch as she looks around fearfully, groaning and struggling to contain her pain as she does. Clearly she is running from someone, and my guess is the Careers. _

_My assumptions are proven correct as the sounds of a dozen voices enters my ears. Laurel moans, but she has no strength to move on. _

_I watch in horror as the Careers gain on her, all glinting with blood lust as they stand over her. It takes only one swipe and Laurel's throat is slashed. The blood spurts out into a macabre fountain of death, the Careers laughing and slapping each other high fives as the cannon booms once more. _

"Because it is my responsibility. It is what I have been entrusted to do."

_I wake from my deep sleep, rather startled I must admit. I had had a nightmare of sorts, only I had seen nothing; only darkness. I fidget slightly, the twigs beneath me digging into my back. _

_The mockingjays of the woods chirp happily on their branches, tweeting a tune I've no familiarity with. _

_The sun shines through the branches and overgrowth. It is an unusually sunny day; no one could have guessed the horrors that are about to unfold at twelve o'clock. _

_I turn my head to the side and smile. Vesper is still my arms, her head curled against my chest. She's still breathing; I can hear her tiny gasps. _

_I check the time with my father's battered watch; eleven forty-five. Fifteen minutes until the Reaping. _

_A dread fills my stomach. I'm sixteen, so I still have two years to go until I'm safe. But Vesper has three, and that makes me sick. _

_I'll be in the clear before she is. _

_I decide to wake her. _

_I nudge her slightly, and at first she protests, mumbling in her sleep as she rolls over. I shake my head. _

_This time, I forcibly push her off and get up onto my feet. _

_She flips onto her back, now completely awake. She eyes me with contempt. _

'_Don't give me that look,' I laugh. _

'_Did you have to push me?' she scowls, getting up herself._

'_Not my fault you land like a log,' I smirk, 'You should lose some weight, Fatty.' _

_She flares and for a moment, I think I've actually angered her. But my doubts melt away as she cracks a wide grin. It reaches her Merchant eyes, and I know it's genuine. Her Seam hair falls onto her face as she stomps towards me, wrapping an arm around my waist as I do the same to her._

_We walk in silence for a moment, nearing the Square with every step. _

_They have already set up, the stage set and the cameras ready. Our District escort, Eurydice Beerun, is standing attentively at the fore front. She is decked in an erratic purple outfit, fitted with feathers, jewels and fake flowers. _

_The other children have already assembled in their blocks, anticipating the dread of the Reaping. _

_I look to Vesper._

_She's frozen in her spot, her eyes wide. She turns her chin to me and smiles sadly. _

'_Happy Hunger Games,' she whispers quietly. _

_I pull her close and plant a kiss in her hair. _

'_And may the odds be ever in your favour,' I murmur. _

"I must keep my people safe, I must keep them from harm. From themselves."

I snap from my daze and look right into his stone blue eyes, my own flaring with anger. My jaw clenches, my fists balling.

His words of so called justification strike powerfully against my heart, stirring within me a rage unparalleled to anything I have ever felt before.

President Snow smiles, his lips pulling themselves wide in a grotesque manner.

"Hmm," He chuckles, letting a snort blow out of his nose, "I see you find this contradictory."

_My hands are covered in her blood, her own clutching her ruined throat. Maysilee begins to convulse, accidently spurting globs of blood into my eye. _

I'm too late,_ I think, _I'm too late to save her.

_I feel downright helpless, unable to offer her anything other than human contact in her final moments._

_My eyes lock with hers and for a moment, I forget where I am and what I'm doing. I can remember earlier times, when her bright blue eyes had once been filled with joy and so full of life. I can hear her laughter in my ears, the sounds of her giggling with her sisters. _

_Now her eyes are dulling, slowly receding as the life within her begins to die. She slowly lifts a hand and shakily holds it out to me. _

'_Haymitch,' she manages to croak. _

_I take her hand without hesitation, squeezing it a little too hard. Her fingers are sticky with blood, still very much warm. _

_I know they're watching and I wish that there is something I can do. I want to make them flush with embarrassment, to make them take responsibility for her predicament. To make them responsible for everyone that I've been forced to watch die horrible deaths. I want to scream, scream with the hatred I feel. _

_But there is nothing I can do. _

_So I sit here, holding Maysilee's hand as she slowly slips away from me. Her body stops shaking, her breathing slowing down. Her lips part and with a slight thud, her head falls limp to her side. _

_She's gone. _

I stand as straight as an arrow, consciously willing my lips to cease in their quivering dance. He does not frighten me, oh no. But his presence, his stench, his entire being makes the hairs on my neck stand on end.

I honestly do not know what is stopping me from tearing him apart right this minute with my bare hands.

He tilts his head to the side, observing my rigid form with detachment.

His eyes glisten.

"The people are like children. They do not know what is best for them."

The anger within me boils over and everything that I have been through, everything that I have been forced to see and do no longer allows me to endure.

"And the Games, that's what's best for us?" I ask, my words almost escaping me in a snake like hiss.

Snow seems a little taken aback, up until now used to my scowling and brooding manner. But he quickly recomposes himself like the statesman he is and stands impassively before me.

He cocks his head upwards at me, looking down his nose.

"Yes it is," he says quietly.

There is no remorse in his words, no regret.

Just pure indifference.

"Dividing us, impoverishing us, murdering us? _That's _what's best for us?" I almost shout this, but something in my unconsciousness screams at me to contain myself. The Officiators are observing this carefully, standing by in case I decide to do anything stupid.

I have already shamed the Capitol once, I cannot risk it again.

But my will allows me to show my disgust, my pain emanating through my voice.

President Snow looks at me squarely in the eyes and they twinkle with something I have not seen before in him; amusement.

"My, my Victor! They were right; you_ do_ have a voice," he chuckles, bowing his head slightly in appreciation.

He taps his forehead twice and his tone becomes sinister. "And quite the mind, from what I've seen."

A brick falls in my stomach and I immediately know what he's referring to. The fear within me wretches, twisting and contorting itself into a physical entity that makes me want to hurl.

"From the very beginning, you trekked to the edge of the Arena. Why?" His gaze is unwavering, studying every part of my face. And not in a curious manner, as if he genuinely wanted to know why.

But rather, in an accusatory fashion, demanding why I had chosen to defy him.

"I needed to see where it all ended," I say, shrugging my shoulders.

"But you knew from the beginning where it would end; forty-seven dead and a lone survivor." He delivers this with absolutely no emotion in his voice. It is as if the lives of these children mean nothing to him, as if he is oblivious to the blood on his hands.

Perhaps he is, perhaps his hands are so soaked in blood he does not notice it anymore.

I do not know what to say to him, if there is anything to say. There is nothing to use against this man, nothing in my power.

But I stand as still as I can, anxiously waiting what he's going to tell me next.

He turns his back on me, and from what I concur, is lifting the lid on the box containing the Victor's crown. I can hear the creak of the lid, but nothing more.

"Tell me, who are you going home to?" his back asks me.

"My mother. And my brother." I say immediately. I try my best to sound confident, to reveal nothing more than my familial ties back in 12; I deliberately leave Vesper out. I hope against hope that he knows nothing of her.

But there is no guarantee.

He turns back round, clutching the crown in his hands.

President Snow smiles curiously, tapping his fingers on the crown.

"Anyone else?" He asks, "Handsome boy like you, surely you have _someone_ waiting for you?"

I am frozen, my heart caught in my ribs.

_He knows. _

"What's her name again? Vesper?" He asks. He lifts a brow as he runs a finger on the edge of the crown.

I can see the joy in his eye, the power he feels. He has something over me and because of it, it has rendered me paralysed.

I feel sick.

"It's a pretty name," Snow muses, "Pretty girl too."

He smiles once more at me, advancing with the crown. He carefully places it upon my head, turning it a little so it sits properly. It surely weighs a few kilograms; already my heads feels as if it is going to fall off.

He holds my shoulders, his touch making me nauseous. His scent is thick in my nose, that horrid mix of blood and roses. It's a disgusting combination, one that should never have formed a union.

The stench almost overwhelms me as he stands even closer.

"Well done Victor," President Snow says, "Savour your victory."

He waves his hand in the air, twirling the still falling streamers and confetti with detached amusement.

"Savour all this...this glitter and gold," He clasps a hand on my shoulder and squeezes it, but I just know there is no sincerity in his actions.

"Whilst you still have it."

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**AN: Yay! You reached the end! Now you can express your thoughts with a review! Hehe. Anyway, when I read Mockingjay, it just didn't seem fair, that Haymitch lost everything within two weeks of crowning. It seemed far too cruel. But I suppose, what I am about to do is worse. **

**So, what did you think?**


	2. Anticipation

_-Vesper-_

Chapter 2

-Anticipation-

The cool air trickles past me, rustling my hair and caressing my skin as I stand on the front porch of our home. The chirps of the crickets and the quiet night songs of the mockingjays are engaged in a pleasant courtship in my ears, their melodies in complete harmony. The usually smoke plagued air of the Seam is warm, its scent sweet and agreeable for once.

I close my eyes, savoring this brief moment of peace.

I've seldom had mornings like this, ever since Haymitch was reaped. Every day during the Quell, as I rose in the morning and as I returned to my bed in the evening, my mind would relent in repeating a simple, yet deadly thought:

'_He might die today,' _

My sunlit days had been torturous, having been forced to watch his Games on the prodigious flat screens. My nights had been unbearable, my dreams constantly relaying the horrors that I had witnessed.

For the duration of the Quell, I had lain awake in the dead of night and for hours my mind would not rest. I'd break into prolonged sweats, my heart struggling to pump the blood within. It has come to the point where my body has adjusted so well to my sleepless nights that I have been rendered an insomniac.

I turn my head and peer back into my desolate home. The entire household has become a mausoleum; nothing stirs.

My mother and father have joined the rest of the elders of 12 with the celebrations, as have my brother and sister. They have gone to the Justice Building and the Square, to decorate our barren District with baubles, banners and other celebratory items.

When I have the time, my home too will be a completely different place. Instead of blowing dust and dirt into tiny crevices and crannies, it will be lit with candles and oil lamps, decked head to toe in festive decorations.

In a few hours, perhaps even less, the District will truly come alive and this peace will be disturbed. The crickets will recede into their holes and the mockingjays will quiescently subdue. Instead, the boom of drums and rapture of trumpets will fill the air. My people will scream and shout for joy, clapping their hands together furiously. They'll dance in the streets, shaking each other's hands and greet their fellow with warmth.

For once, District 12 has something to celebrate.

For the first time in twenty-four years, they will be re-welcoming not the lifeless corpses of their tributes but a Victor.

_Haymitch _

I smile at the name, my heart flipping in an excited manner. For weeks I have had to endure that wretched feeling, that horrid realization that he might be returning in a body bag.

It devastated me, to be forced to imagine a life without him. But I will not deny that I didn't try to steel myself for such a life, that I did not think he would come back.

No one did.

District 12 hasn't had a Victor in a long while, our only one dying just before the Quell. So the hope for this year's tributes to succeed at any stage of the Games, even with the increased intake, had been considerably low.

But he did it.

He made it.

Against all the odds, he did it.

And now, very soon, he'll be back. I will not have to wait long now.

I cannot wait for that moment, for that place in time when I can wrap my arms around him. When I can feel his heart beating against mine, his breath against my ear and his lips upon mine.

I beam at the thought, chuckling as I shake my head.

I suddenly feel something stirring beside me and look down to find a pair of brilliant blue eyes staring up at me.

Conan sniffs noisily, clutching his ruined teddy in one arm. His dark hair is mused, matted and drying from its lack of hydration; his pale lips are parted, the edges tinged with a ghastly magenta and his nose is still very much a brilliant shade of pink.

His illness has not let up, not once has it allowed him a day of rest. It weakens him every day; I can see it in his eyes.

Everything that I feel, the elation that had swelled in heart when I watched Haymitch win the Games, is negated when I see my brother's broken figure.

The Abraxas' have tried their hardest to offer him a cure, even something just to relieve the pain. But there is nothing. There is nothing that can be done.

In a perfect world, we would have supplies and remedies that lived up to Capitol standard. Strange liquids and pills that can eradicate an illness or heal a wound within hours. But it is not such a world.

If there are two things that are certain in this life, one is that the Hunger Games will never cease to exist. The other is that my baby brother, my little Conan, will die at nine years of age.

I should be out with the others, Conan included. Usually, everyone is required to offer their hands for the preparations and to attend the greeting of our Victor. No one is exempt to this rule and disobedience is severely frowned upon.

But Conan's condition had worsened over the past few days, his teachers at school duly noting this. They in turn had informed the Peacekeepers of Conan's absence and subsequently, the white trouser lemmings had visited our shamble of a home.

Seeing Conan so sick and helpless had surprisingly softened their hardened hearts, and in a rather unprecedented action, allowed him clemency. And considering his age and need of a constant carer, had granted me a similar pardon.

So here I stand, watching over my dying brother as my people welcome another. I will probably miss Haymitch's arrival; the injustice of my paradoxical situation has not been lost on me.

But as for Conan, nothing has been able to quash my brother's enthusiasm. Not the fits, not the fatigue and not the pain.

Ever since Haymitch's victory had been televised, Conan has not been able to stay still. He is determined to see Haymitch, to wrap his thin hands around his waist and congratulate his 'second favourite person in the whole wide world.'

"What are you doing up, Conan?" I ask gently, patting his flustered cheek.

"I want to go into town," he murmurs, rubbing his eye, "I want to see Haymitch,"

Sighing, I crouch onto my hunches, leveling myself with my brother.

"You can't Conan," I tell him, "You're too sick,"

"But Vesper…" he whines, pouting his bottom lip pathetically.

"Conan…" I mimic, smiling at the boy. He huffs aggressively, squinting his doe-like eyes at me. I cock my head to the side, silently ordering him to return to his bed. But he stands indignantly, clutching his teddy even harder as he stomps a foot.

I rearrange my expression, trying my best to seem authoritarian.

"Go back to bed," I say sternly, "If you stay out here any longer, you'll get worse. Then you won't get to see Haymitch at all,"

"But I'm _much_ better," he tells me, nodding his head furiously, "Here, touch my head,"

Reluctant to play along, I run my hand over his clammy forehead several times. It is better, I'll admit. A lot better than what it was before. But it is no way a safe temperature. His skin is still too warm, and the sweat that is pouring down his face tells me he is no state to go walking about.

I shake my head, squeezing his shoulder.

Conan sighs heavily, his shoulders dropping a little. His grip slackens, and poor teddy droops. One of its battered button eyes hangs dangerously out of its socket.

Looking utterly defeated, and inciting great regret within myself, he turns on his heel and heads back inside. I can hear him muttering to himself, no doubt obscenities and curses, as he eases himself onto his bed.

I turn back, feeling terrible for Conan.

He wants nothing else but to join the rest of 12 in the celebrations. In all his nine years, he has seen nothing but death and despair.

He loves Haymitch dearly and having had to watch his idol dodge death several times has wounded Conan significantly. I feel that seeing Haymitch will do Conan some good, perhaps breath fresh air into him.

But it is a risk that I, nor my family, can take. I want him to be happy, but I rather he see another spring than bring him brief joy.

Shivering, I wrap my coat tightly around myself. It is cold now, but as the day wears on the temperature will warm and hopefully, I'll no longer need the extra clothing.

I run my fingers through my hair, cursing the tangles I find as I lean against our porch barrier.

It is not much, our little porch fence, merely a motley makeshift barricade of dying wood and rusting nails. My leaning on it will not do any damage; it has built to withstand even my father's weight.

My father is quite the craftsman, naturally considering his origins are rooted in the merchant class of District 12. He had been a breath of fresh air apparently, when he had arrived in the Seam to live with my mother. His personality was infectiously optimistic and his carpentry skills had been well received.

I look reproachfully at my shanty street. The recent rain has damped the dark ground into a muddy pool of mush, the dead leaves and ash from the mines littering the place. There is no colour in the Seam, only shades of grey, black and that hue between. The town is no better, but there is a sense of cleanliness that the Seam will never achieve.

I hear an ominous _creak!_ nearby and sigh; it is the Everdeen's home.

They are a handy bunch, those Everdeens. They are excellent hunters and their game is treasured in the Hob. Their knowledge of the flora and fauna of District 12 is valuable and their will to survive is second to another. But I would never, _ever_, swap my place in life with theirs.

Not for all the skill and capability in the world, for the poverty they suffer is deplorable.

I ponder the day when all of this will be finished, when this disparity will end. When there no longer is a District of starving children neighboring one filled with plump and round cherubs. When there will no longer be citizens living in extravagance and luxury at the expense of others.

But perhaps it never will. Perhaps my people will always be the underbelly of Panem, forever ravenous and stricken with famine as the other Districts progress on the evolutionary scale.

I know there are many Districts who have not acquired the Capitol's favor, themselves in dire straits. I've heard dreadful tales about the conditions of 11, 10 and 9, but it does negate the fact that our death rate is the highest both in and out of the Games.

I shuffle a bit, letting the blood circulate in my legs again.

I am glad that Haymitch won, more than glad in fact. I am ecstatic.

But the way he won, the way that District 2 girl died, I can't imagine that it had gone down well with the Capitol. It was strange in fact, watching the aftermath of Haymitch's victory. The Capitol, or rather President Snow, had been so calm and passive, accepting his triumph just like every other year.

I had expected immediate retaliation.

But nothing has happened, nothing at all. Haymitch is coming home and the Capitol has done nothing to mar that.

I giggle to myself. I feel pathetic for it, but from the moment he left I had not been able to breathe.

Now I can.

Out of habit, I tighten my coat but frown almost instantly; I can feel something against my chest. I fidget a bit more, feeling the unidentified object crinkling and folding.

I open my coat and dig my fingers inside the pockets, fishing for the object. It takes a while; the pockets are very deep and are designed to harbour many items. It takes a while until I finally find it and pull it out.

It seems to be a card of some sort, folded into two. It is a worn and an incredibly old thing, tearing at the corners and fraying at the edges.

I take it into my hands and turn it out, smoothing away the edges as best I can.

What I see fills me with a joy I cannot fully comprehend. It is like the feeling one feels when meeting a dear old friend. That euphonious mix of nostalgia and happiness, longing and delight.

It is a photograph, albeit an old and one of sepia tones but a photograph nonetheless.

Haymitch and I.

He is perhaps ten years old in this shot, I maybe bordering at the pointy end of nine. His arm is around my shoulders, my own around his waist. His grey eyes are twinkling in the sunlight, the camera having captured its unique glow. My own eyes are a lot bluer than what I can remember. Haymitch had always told me that, I never really believed that until now.

His hair is close cropped in the shot, still very dark and curled but to such a reduced state of its usual decadence. My hair too has been cropped, dancing and twirling on the blades of my shoulders.

I remember that year, not very clearly, but still; lice had infected just about every child in the Seam.

A complete pandemic.

Ironic though, considering that the hair in the Seam was probably the most grottiest and germ-infested in Panem. But perhaps the lice of District 12 had lowered their standards.

We're smiling and that's what strikes me the most. Not smiling for the camera, but at it. It is a shot captured mid way through a giggle, a perfect moment.

I cannot recall a time when we had ever looked this sincere and without trouble.

Certainly not recently.

I hold the photograph tightly in my hands, the fragile thing crinkling in my tight fingers and place it against my lips.

There had been a time when I had thought that memories were all that would be left of him. I had steeled myself for the worst, collecting all of his things that I possessed and storing them for safekeeping. I remember I had sorted a place to keep his district token, keeping it clean and free of dust.

I had thought I had lost him.

But I was wrong.

Thank goodness I was wrong.

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**AN: Well, i wanted to wait until at least one of you reviewed or alerted, but...hmm. Maybe this helped?**


	3. Home

_Haymitch_

Chapter 3

-Home-

When the train finally halts at District 12, it is well into the afternoon. The sun is sitting lazily on the horizon, the sky illuminated by a brilliant array of magentas, oranges and purples. It is stunning, this elaborate melee of hues and shadows.

But none of this ethereal beauty interests me.

I had experienced many a pretty sunset in the Arena, many splashes of colour and throws of light. But the resting of the sun had never meant a good night's rest or the belief of waking to a splendid morning. What it had meant though, was that the Gamemakers had gotten bored and felt that an early night would bring a fresh round of bloody entertainment; beautiful sunsets have long lost their spark.

I am sitting upon my carriage bed, my limbs curled and my head leaning against the double glazed window. My thoughts are scattered, head pounding. My mouth is dry and my throat feels coarse and battered from all the interviews I have had to endure since my victory.

There is a terrible emptiness in my stomach but I know it has nothing to do with a lack of food.

What had thrilled me at the beginning of my journey, the prospect of coming home and seeing my loved ones again, has long left me.

Though he had not said anything specific, President Snow had made it pretty damn clear that I will not be left unpunished for my actions. That the humiliation I had caused he and his government would not be simply tossed aside a sixteen-year-old's desperate bid to live.

Then again, I never thought I wouldn't be.

Left unpunished I mean.

Not once, from the moment that District 2 girl, Sonja, died until the moment I was crowned, did I think I would be left unscathed by Snow and his bloodthirsty hounds.

But him actually hinting at it, actually insinuating at hurting my loved ones has made it reality. I had thought that if I had won, I could see them again. I could hold them and breathe the same air as them again. But In escaping the Games, I had only secured a death sentence for my family.

I hold my head in the hands, running my fingers through my hair.

It is no longer slick, soft or shiny. It has become matte-like and thick, sticking in comical positions from the oil that has secreted from my scalp; the time it had spent in my Prep Teams' hands is long in the past.

I remember the amount of time and care Narcissus had taken with my hair, to prepare it for my return to 12. He had fussed and pulled and yanked and cursed it into submission, and it has all been for nothing.

In less than a few minutes, I will be back home; hair and makeup and aesthetic beauty will no longer bother me. In a few minutes, I will step off this wretched train for the last time this year and step back onto the familial soil of District 12.

It is both welcome and gut wrenching, this feeling I'm experiencing.

The door to my carriage clicks and slides open, making no noise whatsoever. I turn my head lazily, groaning as I see Eurydice emerge from the shadows.

Eurydice is our District Escort, has been for the last ten years. She's not very old, mid-thirties at the most but despite her still lingering youth, she has taken every measure to ensure that even when she is nothing but bones and dust, her surgically modified lips, noses and skin will remain well into the next century.

I stare at her disdainfully, watching and waiting to see what she will say. She is glad in the most vibrant of colours, a clash of orange and pink, so bright and sunny it makes my head spin.

"Haymitch?" she asks, leaning her frame against the door, "You should get ready dear, you're nearly home,"

She is trying to sound affectionate, appear like a friend, but really her efforts are lost on me. Her attempts to seem kind and human are akin to a spider trying to appear soft and cuddly.

"Am I, Eurydice?" I return, my voice heavy with scorn.

"Don't be silly; of course you are! Look out the window!" She laughs that shrilly laugh of hers, her hands on her surgically constructed hips. She taps her foot expectantly at me, her bright orange lips pursed in a grotesque snarl.

I make no move to get up, instead curling myself even tighter into my little ball.

I never have, and I never will abide by Eurydice's orders; I'll be damned if I do.

There is nothing more she can do to me, to make comply. She is perhaps most unlike other escorts, from what I have seen anyway. Most escorts seem to exude some sort of sympathy to their tributes, try to appear supportive or sugar coat their demise with happy conversations and words of praise that are not due.

I suppose, compared to most other Escorts, she's quite down to earth. Though she exhibits the clear favour to the elaborate fashions of the Capitol, she manages to adorn her garments in a low key, well kept manner.

But for what she lacks in appearance, she makes up in ferocity. I have never met a damned woman than Eurydice Beerun. It is clear that she is contemptuous, not of the Games, but of District 12.

She smiles unfailingly, flashing two rows of brilliant shiny teeth on command like a dog waiting to be rewarded. She giggles and chuckles, telling all those who'd listen just how proud she is to be the 'underdog' district's escort.

But from the moment we met, I could see it in her eyes, the disdain rolling off her like waves.

She despises us. They way we look, the way we speak, the colours of our skin and our way of living. In fact, I'm willing to be she had some sort of one-person party every time one of us died in that Arena.

I can remember the woeful looks she had thrown Lionel, as she watched him wolf down every proper meal that he had been deprived on in his seventeen years. I can remember the way she'd snort at Laurel's awe and laugh at Maysilee's bashfulness.

I am glad to be finally shot of her and all that she stands for, at least for a few more months.

I cannot see her, but I can hear her sigh a hissed breath, clearly agitated by me. I can hear her shuffle, the click of her heels and suddenly, her bony and pale fingers have dug into my skin, latched around my arms and the small of my back

"Come on, up you get-"

I almost shriek in dismay, shuddering at the feel of skin against mine. I yelp, roughly pushing her away and I stumble onto the floor and onto my feet.

"EURYDICE!" I cry at the top of my lungs.

"What?" she asks pathetically, pouting her lower lip as if she is trying to appear harmless and unaware. She reaches out for me once more and I slap away her hand; Eurydice makes my skin crawl.

"There's no need to manhandle me!" I say through gritted teeth, each word as stilted as the other.

I look to her, her eyes meeting mine. They are a brilliant shade of violet, Eurydice's eyes. No doubt a product of surgical enhancement, but however her surgeon was had done a fine job; they look almost natural.

She tilts her head to the side, a small smile unfurling on her lips.

I sometimes try to imagine what goes on in her head, what dark thoughts run wild in there. But there are some abyss' even I am not willing to delve into.

"I wasn't man-handling you," she says, the sharp tones of her voice piercing my ears.

I shake my head, reaching for the satin jacket Narcissus had laid out for me for my arrival.

"No you're right," I scoff, "Your people have done that enough already,"

Her eyes widen, her pupils dilating. Her nostrils flare and her mouth hangs open slightly. It is in moments like these where I wonder whether Eurydice is entirely human, or mutt/human hybrid.

Shaking my head, I push past her.

I know I've made another mistake; do doubt she'll be reporting my distaste for the Capitol to her precious President Snow.

She worships that man, kisses his feet and revers the ground he walks on.

I shake my hair out of my face, running my fingers absently on the inside of my wrist.

I wait patiently at the carriages doors; doors in a few moments will open up and will greet me to the sound of my celebratory District.

I am alone for this present moment, making me wonder if I pushed Eurydice a little hard. Physically of course, I could bear to break her mind and her spirit like she had mine, but if I had broken her ribs or split her lip, I'm not sure there'd be enough of me to plug a sink.

I feel a tapping on my shoulder and turn around.

It is a Peacekeeper, stark and bleak in his white uniform, his expression unreadable behind his helmet.

"A message for you Mr. Abernathy," he says monotonously, handing me a piece of paper.

I take it and nod once, he returning my courtesy. I wait until he turns and replaces himself back at his station. I marvel at his composure, at the way he manages to keep himself stoic and still.

I wonder if any of this affects him, if any of it makes him want to blow himself to smithereens like I do.

I look down at the paper and unfold it, at first unable to recognize the scrawled writing.

'_Try and keep yourself together, kid. You've got some rough times ahead of you. See you at next year's Games.' _-Chaff

Chaff.

Tall, dark and formidable Chaff with the missing hand from District 11. He won his games five years ago, one of the most brutal Games I had ever seen. Unlike most other 11 tributes, Chaff had been more like a Career. He seemed to revel in the bloodshed, enjoy the thrill it gave him.

But I don't think it's anything sinister, nothing to make me worried. What he did in the Games, all that he had to do, I bet it was the most freedom he had ever experienced in his whole life. Back in the fields of 11, he was nothing but a hulking titan, slaving away for twelve hours a day. But In that Arena, in that desolate place, he had been almighty and powerful.

When his tributes died, when I was among the last left standing, I was told he arranged his sponsors to help me out. I don't think I can count how many times his gifts saved me back there, kept me from eating my own flesh or drinking my own urine.

Myrtle, my Victor and our District's first Victor, she wasn't much help to be perfectly honest. She wasn't too old; she had won the 4th Hunger Games and was only into her late fifties. But she was so broken, so messed up and beyond repair; she could hardly look me in the eyes than send me a meal in the Arena.

She'd won when she was twelve years old, a feat only accomplished by two other Victors in the history of the Hunger Games. At the time it had been incredible, for the odds were completely against her.

But somehow she did it, somehow she managed to beat twenty-three other children who were not only older than her, but bigger, stronger and healthier.

None of that matters now though; she slit her wrists when I was in the Arena.

Fat lot of help that did me.

I look down at the paper and re-read it, searching it for any hidden meanings. But there is nothing. Nothing cryptic or subtle; all straightforward and honest. Chaff never spoke a word he didn't mean, nor did he say it in an inexplicable tongue.

I suddenly lurch forward, crumpling the paper in my hand instinctively as the train halts to a stop.

A scent wafts into my nose and instantly, I know the source. I can smell Eurydice from a mile away, for nothing can rival her odour; a mix of fresh flowers and carrion. I can't imagine what led her to make such a dismal choice in fragrances.

Eurydice emerges from the shadows, her eyes gleaming with derision.

"Hmph!" she tuts, pushing past me.

Gingerly, I stand behind her, watching with interest as she prepares to face the crowd. She wipes her face clean of her scowl and contempt, replaces it with a smile gleaming with fake elation.

I can hear the dulled cries of my people, for once out of happiness rather than despair.

The double doors of my carriage opens and quick as a flash, Eurydice grabs my hand, locks it with an iron grip.

The light filters in so quickly, I am temporarily blinded. So much so, all I can feel is Eurydice raising my hand into the air, the action greeted with cheers and woops. And all I can hear is her announcing my arrival, heralding it like a prophet.

"People of District 12, may I present to you your tribute Haymitch Abernathy; Victor of the Second Quarter Quell!"

* * *

I stand impatiently in the centre of the Justice Building, my breath hitched and my heart beating furiously. I had greeted my people with the respect they deserved, but really the whole time I had been itching to see the people I had fought in the Arena for.

I had shaken hands with the Mayor, exchanged a few empty and customary words and then was left to myself for a few minutes.

Eurydice has returned, evidently waiting for that last second, that moment in which she can leave this slum and settle back in her silk sheets and perfumed showers.

Now, all I waiting for is my mother and my brother. I don't know what I'll do when I see them. I don't know if I'll be able to speak, or if I'll fall to my knees, or a combination of both. I just hope…

The double doors open, and two Peacekeepers file in. I crane my neck and try to look round them, see if my family is with them.

I hear her before I see her.

"Haymitch!"

All I see is a flurry of coal hair, and the pattering of tiny feet. But once she is my arms, there is no mistaking it.

"Mom," I breathe, clutching her desperately against myself.

My mother is a tiny woman, both in size and stature. Her long dark hair is perhaps the only thing that hides her tiny frame but even that is beginning to fail her. She is all skin and bones my mother, like so many others. And holding her like this, after weeks of not knowing, our desperate situation is far more acute than ever.

"Oh my dear," she murmurs, "I thought I'd lost you,"

She pulls away from me and holds me out. Her kind face is wet with tears, her grey eyes glistening in the dim light flittering through the half opened windows.

"I'm not that easy to rub out," I say, my voice hoarse and cracked.

She smiles.

We stare at each other for a moment, as if it is our first time meeting. It's a surreal moment and it makes me wonder if it's even happening. I glance over my shoulder and see that Eurydice is standing far to the side, her eyes trained on the long nail buffer she is clutching within her long fingers.

She does not seem moved by this reunion, or shaken in any way. In fact, she seems mildly bored. And a little irritable, as if there is a world of things she could be doing right now and watching the reunion of a mother and child is something to yawn at.

I can feel my fists balling but before I am able to do anything stupid, I hear the doors open once more.

The Peacekeepers are the first to enter and following them, comes a tiny and fragile figure.

"Symon!"

My voice echoes in the Building, its distress and relief bouncing off the walls. My brother does not break his pace and in doing so, I am forced to pick up my own.

When I finally reach him, I don't bother to say hello or anything like that. I simply drop to my knees, grab him by the shoulders and hold him to me.

"Symon?" I ask. He stares back at me, his eyes wide and expressionless. A brick drops in my stomach and I wonder if I have lost my little brother. I wonder if my time in the Arena had far more a detrimental effect on him that it did on me.

I will him to say something, to do anything that shows me he's not dead yet.

I search his eyes, looking for that distinctive spark and sparkle.

I am about to give up when he finally gives way. He coughs a little violently, before beginning to sob controllably as he grabs me.

"Haymitch!"

I sigh, smiling despite everything. He is crying into my shoulder, his tiny body shaking and shivering. I run my hand along his back, holding him tight. He is nine years old, but despite his age, he is incredibly small. So small and so without weight and figure, I am able to heave him up and carry him on my hip.

I walk back to my mother, who holds the both of us in her arms. My father is not here, he never will be, but even so I can feel him. Perhaps he is standing right here, my mind likes to think, his hand on my shoulder as he struggles to tell me how much he loves me through all the tears.

I look at her enquiringly and though I have not said a word, she understands.

"She's at home, darling," she says, a little mournful, "She's a bit busy at the moment, but I'm sure she'll come and see you soon."

_Oh. _

_She's at home. She's…busy? _

_But with what?,_ my mind demands, _What could possibly be more important than seeing me?_

It sounds conceited and horribly self-righteous on my part, but I cannot help it. I went through torture to get back to her, weeks of death and destruction and now I cannot even claim my reward.

Despite everything, I curse her. Curse her and her hold on me. I can't believe the sense of deflation I feel, the way she has been able to break me so.

_Let her_, my mind says, _Let her. She can do whatever the hell she wants, see if I care._

But my mind reminds that there must be something, something from barring her. I know she'd never abandon me on purpose, never leave me to wonder.

Though she could be anywhere, I send her a silent hello and hope against hope that I'll see her.

* * *

I slump back in the chair, feeling the brand new padding hesitantly pushing and contorting to my figure. I wriggle a bit, struggling to find a position that portrays even a semblance of comfort.

And after much movement and struggle, I end up with my body half twisted and with my legs swung over the arms.

I sigh heavily as I rest my head against its back, feeling its soft velvet cover caressing my skin. I close my eyes but it does not offer me solace.

My mind is racing at a billion miles per hour, my memory replaying images that are so entrench in blood, death and violence; it threatens to drown me completely.

My eyes flitter open, my body shivering and my teeth chattering. I suddenly feel very cold, even though there is a roaring fire not a metre from me.

I am craving warmth. Not from a fire or a hot drink or even a hug from mother.

I want her.

I thought that once I arrived, I would have been able to see her again. To hold her in my arms and suffocate her with my kisses.

But I have not seen Vesper since my arrival. Not even the swish of her hair in the distance, or the flash of her eyes in the crowds. I saw her parents on the way in, her older siblings too. I begin to wonder why and almost by default, I begin to harbour dark thoughts.

Maybe she's sick? But sick with what, Haymitch? Of illness? Or sick of the sight of you? Maybe she couldn't stand seeing you degrade yourself on that screen. Maybe she can't stand to look at you again.

I shake my head, swallowing heavily.

I suddenly hear pounding on my front door, marking comically that unlike my previous home, this door will not threaten to fall out of its frame. It sounds like a fist, balled probably. There is nothing polite about its tone, rather furious and fevered in a way.

"Visiting hours is over!" I yell, not bothering to look; it is dark out and the only light in the entire area comes from the roaring fire of my new home. There is a brief moment of silence and I think I have scared them off.

I almost congratulate myself, feeling proud that I can instil fear even outside the Arena. But any self-congratulations is lost when the knocking recommences. This time, it is hurried and in a way, almost desperate.

I look over my shoulder, wondering if this ominous thudding has woken my brother and mother. But as I strain my ear, I hear nothing.

The knocking continues nonetheless.

"Did you hear what I said?" I say, shaking my head.

Whoever it is pauses again, as if thinking about something, but picks up almost immediately. I roll my eyes, sighing heavily.

I cannot imagine who it is, or rather who would dare to knock at my door at this late hour. It is certainly not a small child desperate for my audience, having taken a shine to my performance in the Arena. The Hunger Games are hated in 12; no one would dare glorify it.

For a moment, I think it may be a Peacekeeper. But even they would have at least announced themselves.

Despite my mind screaming otherwise, my feet manage to swing themselves back onto the floor and begin dragging themselves to the door.

I'd like to give this jackass a piece of my mind, to ask if their mother hadn't taught them to leave people alone?

Rubbing my eyes, I turn the knob and open the door completely.

"Listen ass-wipe, you-" I begin, but that is all I manage to get out. Quick as a flash, my visitor has hurtled towards me, arms open and at full pelt. They wrap their hands around my neck and I manage to note that whoever it is, has no weight to claim.

And despite my own strength, from pure surprise alone, I fall back and my intruder falls with me. We land with an almighty thud onto the front rug of my home, bodies screaming with pain.

"Haymitch!"

I pause, my breathing slowing and my heart keeping in time. I know that voice, I know that voice anywhere. Still on the floor, I gently pull their head to up face mine.

A pair of brilliant blue eyes flash at me, a long nose inches away from the tip of mine and dark hair mingling with my own.

"Vesper!"

I don't know what to say or what to do; all I know is that an inhuman cry escapes my mouth. A mixture of relief, happiness and surprise.

I begin laughing rather unceremoniously, more out of joy that anything. I pull her off for a brief second, bring us both back onto our feet and embrace her once more.

The feeling is beyond anything I have ever experienced. My heart is beating furiously, unsure as what speed is appropriate. My lungs are working overtime, desperate to take in as much oxygen as they can.

It is surreal and completely mind numbing.

We're laughing, Vesper and I, crying too. Our words overlap each other like colliding trains, our hands running all over the other, trying to make sense of everything. It's as if neither one of us can quite believe that the other is standing right there.

I realise we haven't said much apart from the cries of our names, but I have no time for chit-chat, no patience for conversing.

I grab her roughly, locking her lips with mine. She responds and like the times we had before my Games, I am able to lose myself. And from the way her body relaxes against mine, I can tell she feels the same.

But then, Vesper breaks away, still in my arms but broken from my kiss. I look at her for a moment, marvelling that this girl is mine. She is strange specimen, those jumbled kids with parents from both the Seam and the Merchant Class. Their poverty stricken roots has manifested in their dark coal hair, their sugar coated destitution glistening in their eyes. But is it not her beauty that has engaged me, but it would be a lie to say that she is without it. It is her. All that I have ever come to know and all that I fought to see again in the Arena.

She smiles and my heart flutters. But without a second's hesitation, without a second thought, she slaps me right across my cheek.

I pull away, holding the smarting area and cursing its sting.

"What was that for?" I breathe, looking at her disdainfully.

"You called me an ass-wipe," she mutters. She seems ashamed but any semblance disappears as a wicked grin plays havoc with her lips. She grabs me again and this time, her arms are surprisingly strong, wrapped like leeches around me.

"Steady on, Vesper," I croak, almost laughing. "You're choking me,"

She pulls away a little, blushing a deep crimson. "S-sorry,"

After a moment's silence, she takes out her hands and holds my face within them. My sore cheek sighs contently at the feel of her skin, healing already under her touch. She seems to be studying my ruddy countenance, her eyes flickering all over me. Her hands stroke me, flittering daintily over the scars my Prep Team seemed to have forgotten.

"Yes Vesper. That's my face," I say, smiling.

"Sorry," she mutters. She pulls me into an embrace once more and rests her head in the crook of my shoulder. I can feel her laboured breath against me and I can feel its potency entering my veins. This is really all I needed. To feel her against me, to hear our breaths mingle as one.

It is irrevocable proof that I am alive, and so is she.

"It's just...there were so many moments when I thought you weren't going to make it," she says, her voice quiet and almost whisper like. She sounds almost fearful, as if she is afraid that she says those words loud enough, they'd manifest themselves into something physical.

She pulls away and holds me at arm's length. "But here you are,"

"I'm sorry I couldn't come and see you when I arrived," I say, clutching her hands, "There were so many people..."

"I understand," she returns, "But it's not like I was there either,"

"Where were you then?" I ask, although there is nothing accusatory in my tone.

She sighs, her blue eyes glazing a little.

"It's Conan," she says finally, "He's sick."

"With?" I ask, but she shrugs her shoulders in a deflated manner. "He can't be cured?"

"No," she mumbles. She looks to me and smiles sadly. "He really wanted to come see you,"

"I really wanna see _him_," I admit. I tuck her hair behind her ear and kiss the line of her jaw.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart," I say. I pull off the ring off my finger. "Before I forget,"

I hand it to her. "Here,"

"You keep it," she says, enclosing it in my fingers. "It's your token Haymitch."

"But it was yours,"

"Technically, it's an heirloom," she smiles. She pecks me lightly on the cheek. "But I gave it to you. Honestly Haymitch, accept gifts when they're handed to you,"

She smiles once more and then pushes past me, twirling around my new home as she admires every nook and cranny.

"It's nice here isn't it?" she asks, staring up at the high ceiling.

"It's alright," I shrug, seating myself back into my arm chair.

"Is it always going to be this clean?" she asks, grinning from ear to ear.

"What do you think?" I laugh. I pause for a moment. "Do you actually like it?"

"Anything's better than the Seam," shrugs Vesper. And for once, I couldn't agree more.

Living in the Seam is like living amongst the cretins of earth. There's no colour there, no beauty. Nothing to be proud or nothing to admire. Just dirt, misery, hunger and poverty. Though I had, and still have, my reservations about my new home, I could not help but feel a sense of a relief when I finally stepped in. The realisation that I had left that godforsaken place.

"…Haymitch? Haymitch?"

I look up and break free from my thoughts, eyeing Vesper quizzically.

"Where's your mother and Symon, I asked?" she repeats.

"Uh, upstairs," I mumble hastily.

"Sleeping?"

I grab her hand and yank her down. Hard, but not too hard. She falls elegantly into my lap, her legs swinging over mine as she rests her head against my own. I can feel her closing her eyes and she does, so do I. I clutch her tightly, feeling more and more vulnerable as the time passes.

I am overcome by something, overcome with a sense of disappointment and deflation I cannot put into words. I feel as if there is a dark cloud hanging over me, over us, and no matter what I do to stop the rain from falling, I feel like it will.

When it comes, it'll wash away everything and everyone I have worked so hard to get back to. It won't wash away the pain and suffering, only stain it with something far more damaging; nostalgia.

I pull her even closer to myself, rather absently, and in response, she protests a little; evidently my hold has become a grip.

"You know, when I was out there…I realised something," I say quietly, gently pushing her head so I can look to her properly.

"What?" she grins, her voice calm and soothing, "That you'd have to take a crap on national television?"

"No," I chuckle, shaking my head. She shrugs her shoulders, as if to ask 'then, what?'

I know 'what', but I cannot put it into a sentence. Something that won't sound like mindless garbage or half-hearted. It's as if the words in my mouth are fearful of leaving it, fearful of venturing into the word for dread of becoming something real.

Taking my silence as an answer, she shakes her head and smiles, twisting my curls in her fingers. We sit here for a few minutes, her fingers starting to lax against my head and her lids beginning to droop.

I gently stretch myself and instinctively, she stretches with me until her body is lying against mine. I wrap an arm around her waist and in response, she curls against me. Within minutes, she has fallen asleep, the only sound of her being the tiny hitches of oxygen I can hear escaping her mouth.

I place my lips against the crown of her head and inhale her scent. She doesn't really have one, nothing particular that I can point. None of that, 'smells like the rain' or 'reminds me of a spring morning'.

Just her. She smells like Vesper. And I pray that there will never be a day in which it is no longer there.

I know she can't hear me for she is deep in her sleep, but I say it anyway.

I say it so I can make it real. I say it so that now it has left my mind; it can truly become mine and mine to keep.

"I realised how much you mean to me,"

* * *

**AN: Hello, hello! I know I haven't updated in a while, but rest assured I have good reason; I had incredibly important exam the other day and really, I dropped everything these past 2 months to prepare for it! And I finished it today! Pray that I did well!**

**Anyway, hope this was up to your standards. **

**I feel that it was a little rushed, but oh well. Thank you so much to limelight24 and Amethyst3232 for reviewing; yes, Vesper is Haymitch's girl! I'm very glad you like my story! And also thanks to and inthebusinessofparamore for alerting! **


	4. Rats Eat Rats

_Haymitch _

Chapter 4

-Rats Eat Rats: Part 1-

I cannot say how long I have been lying here, awake and my mind racing, only able to make an educated assumption that the night has reached its utmost summit. It has gripped District 12 with fingers of darkness so impenetrable and so overpowering, I fear it has taken a physical manifestation; much like it does in my dreams.

I find it difficult to sleep, difficult to rest my eyes and allow my mind to become consumed with the weightless dusk that so many look forward to after a long day's labour. Even in the Arena, when my life had been in constant threat and its existence in invariable peril, I had managed even a few hours of shut eye. But for the last few days, and rather alarmingly, I have not slept a wink.

I bid my mother and brother a 'good night' every evening, a simple masquerade on my part but one I am all too happy to play. They are not to assume anything, they are not to know. They mustn't discern of my sleepless nights, the troubling thoughts that circle in my head like vultures above a carcass.

Sometimes I want to, sometimes I want to reach out and plead for my mother to hold me tight to her ever-loving bosom like I saw so many in the Arena do in their last moments. I yearn for the comfort which, quite honestly, is rightfully mine. But when I see her smiling face, the years of pain and poverty that have marred her once magnificent countenance, I cannot bring myself to bring her this additional burden.

I can remember the ancient bed stories my mother used to tell me, the ones I can still hear her relaying to Symon's eager ears. Those primeval tales of fabled ethereal men and women who once ruled over the earth, watching and observing as their mortal offspring scurried about on their tiny rock of a creation.

Gods, they used to call them, and goddesses. One for every chasm of the human psyche which I suppose back then could only be explained with fictitious sagas. One for the sea and one for the sky, one for war and for love, and one even represented inebriation and merriment.

I always laughed at that last one.

Imagine that, a god who's acolytes did nothing but drink!

They are all stored away in a secret part of my mind, a place I hold sacred for it is perhaps what keeps me sane. Bits of nonsense, things that do not matter in the course of the world, but allow me to return to a person I once knew to be Haymitch Abernathy. Not this husk my loved ones kiss and thank the heavens for.

I keep these tales there, never to be used, but never to be forgotten. And one, like a bulked file among thin folders, sticks out the most to me.

Atlas.

The Titan forced by the almighty Zeus to bear the heavens upon his shoulders as punishment. He bore the world upon his back, forced to tolerate a punishment that to him must have been unjust, but still required his begrudging complacency. What would have happened, if he had simply decided he would not do it? If he had just, allowed the world to roll off his shoulders?

Chaos would have ensued, life would have been thrown off balance so irreparably that that moment of defiance would not have been worth it.

It is perhaps forward to compare my encumbrance to his, but I feel that Atlas and I would have had a lot to talk about.

What I saw in the Arena, the nightmares and the pains that are still as vivid as the moment they had manifested before me are_ my_ burden.

And so here I am, lying in the darkness of my bedroom with nothing but the sounds of the night crickets to accompany me in my solace. I turn my head, staring out the high window at the pitch black. It is a starless night, but the moon has made a shy appearance. Perhaps it feels naked without its twinkling companions to sail the night with her, which would explain her sitting in the sky with nothing but a nimble cloud to act as a shield of modesty from my depraved eyes.

I smack my lips, wetting the dry and cracked surface.

I need to get up, I suddenly think. I need to move about, fill the fresh air in my lungs and feel the soft wind against my keen skin. I cannot stay here, immobile and weighted by my memories.

I don't know where to go; nothing in my mind is set. My thoughts make a mental map of District 12, already the grittiness of the Hob, the cleanliness of the Justice Building and serene madness of the forest beyond the fence as vivid to me as if I were standing before them.

I don't know at which point my body had decided to act on behalf of my mind, all that I am aware of is I have shrugged on a tattered coat and an itchy scarf, and I am already half way out the door. I am only dimly aware of the tall bottle of whiskey I am clutching in my hand, chugging it down at ever second step.

The early signs of winter here; I can see the first fallings of tiny snowflakes and feel the first gusts of icy breezes. Soon, perhaps in a week or two, the ground will be completely covered in a sleet of white wonder that still enchant many of the local children.

Not me, not anymore. They, like those fabled tales, are locked in that part of mind where no one can pervert it. I do not feel the same giddiness, the same excitement I had felt in my childhood, but it's still there within me.

I pass through Victor's Village, passing empty home after empty home. They remind me of the shacks that scatter the Seam like puckered sick marks on pearly baby skin. Those shacks are nothing but stark reminders, desolate wastelands that once housed perhaps an entire family, but now contain nothing but their ashes. No one wants to deal with that level of death and despair, especially when they have their own to comprehend; half out of disgust and half out of respect. The respect is half-hearted though, for there is nothing respectable about dying in your own shit. But its something the rest of us use as a means of coping, that somehow we're doing the right thing.

So they just sit there, left to rot like their inhabitants that are long gone. But it occurs to me that these Victor's Homes, they are not inhabitable; there is no one to inhabit them.

It is now Myrtle's death feels the most agonizing to me. I had despised the way she had chosen to go, even cursed her for leaving us in such straits. Nothing had been able to reconcile me, nothing could be said to get me to forgive. But now as I trudge through these empty lanes, passing empty windows and smokeless chimneys, I feel more isolated in the world than ever.

I turn a corner, barely conscious of what I'm doing. I turn again, and again, and once more until finally I am standing on the outskirts of the Seam.

I sigh. Even in a daze, I end up here.

You could be forgiven for believing that the Seam was not all that it was, for the dark is exceptional at covering the ugliness of the world. And what lets me step into this ugliness with so much as a flinch or a wince, is the understanding that I am a part of it.

I kick over a stray stone, or bone, I cannot be sure. I almost trip over a half hidden, rot induced chicken hut that houses nothing more than vermin now. A mangy dog scuttles past me, dragging a damaged leg behind him. He stops still, looks at me with an almost curious expression as he cautiously edges towards me.

I am careful to keep my distance; despite his friendly demeanor, he could well be diseased. As he comes closer, I can see that is missing an eye, his left ear half chewed away and left into nothing but red-raw ribbons.

He suddenly perks up, his eye dancing with glee and his thick tail wagging. I think he recognizes me but I am not entirely sure if I recognize him. I remain cautious, frightened perhaps by his mangy appearance.

He whimpers a little, looking down at his feet as though he is ashamed.

I smile.

"It's alright," I whisper, "Where are you off to?" Despite the germs, and the disease, I reach out a hand and tickle him behind his good ear. He closes his eyes contently, leaning against my hand. He awakens again, this time sniffing at the mouth of the bottle I'm still clutching. He licks it once, recoiling almost instantly from the bitter taste.

I smile again, but I dump the remains of bottle in the ground; I cannot possibly drink out of it now.

I plop myself onto the ground, the mangy thing mimicking me. He looks expectantly at me, titling his head to the side.

He barks once.

"What?" I ask, "What do you want?"

I throw my hands out to the side, and all I receive for an answer is a bark. He looks at me with an almost disheartened look, as if he knows that that one bottle has not been the only one tonight. He gets up on his good hind leg, hopping a about a metre away from me before turning around slowly.

He barks.

He wants me to follow.

I chuckle; this really is turning into a strange night. I make no move and once again, he picks up his gait only to stop and stare like he had the first time. This time, several barks leave his mouth and much louder than before.

Despite my reservations, perhaps I really am going mad, I get up onto my feet and follow him. He springs into step, jumping then whimpering as he lands on his bad leg. I keep a safe distance, feeling all the more isolated as I realize that I only have a dog for company tonight.

He weaves his way this way and that in the huts of the Seam, some spaces a little too tight for me. He makes one final twist before stopping abruptly at the back of a house.

I stop beside him, look at him with confusion.

"Where are we?" I ask. He barks in answer.

I cross my arms in frustration, unable to believe that I've allowed myself to be lead about the District by a half rabid dog. But it is only then I realise, and when I do, he's already disappeared into the darkness.

This is Vesper's home, the back of it but it is the Beckett's nonetheless. I can tell by the twist of the wood and the rot in the sides. Vesper and I used to always saw that that rot looked a little bit like President Snow.

And then I'm struck by another revelation; the dog.

I know him, just as much as he knows me.

It's Pookie. Conan's Pookie. I can remember as clear as day when Conan had found him, wrapped in dirty blankets and completely vulnerable to the world. Tiny and fragile, opening and closing its pathetic mouth as it had whined for the milk that had been robbed from him.

It hits me with immense sadness, to realise just how much that bouncy and good-natured dog has now descended into poverty himself. I can remember those days, a few years back when food and water had hit an appalling low; Pookie had become too much of a burden, too much of an extra mouth to feed. I cannot and did not blame the Beckett's for their abandonment, but it does not negate the sorrow I feel.

I run my hand through my hair, wandering what exactly to do. Pookie is now gone and as far as I can tell, not another soul stirs in my midst. I am about to turn back when it hits me and I feel like an idiot for missing the thought not a millisecond ago.

This is the back window to Vesper's home, leading straight to the living room if I am not mistaken. And if I can recall, her room is adjacent.

What better way to spend the evening than with her?

I look around my feet, searching for a stone. It's rather difficult, I find, as the moon has suddenly hidden behind its cloud and everything within the ground has camouflaged with its companions. Blindly, I reach into the dirt, fumble a bit, and then pick up a small smooth stone.

"Vesper!" I chuck the stone at her window, hoping the small missile will not cause too much of a disturbance.

Nothing happens, the stone simply bounces off the glazed window and falls pathetically back into the dirt. I advance myself this time, gently tapping the sill.

"Vesper!"

I tap again, this time a little louder and a little bolder. Again there is no response and once again I am forced to continue my assault. I slowly become irritated, no doubt the whirr of fresh air coupled with the blurry effects of the whiskey are beginning to wear on me.

I am just about ready to launch my fist through the glass before finally, the sound of urgent footfalls enters my ears and almost simultaneously, the latch of the window flies open.

Vesper pops her head out the small space between the sill and the frame, her features somewhat darkened in the low light. She stares at me with an inflamed expression, her blue eyes glinting and her mouth twisted into a frown of disapproval.

"Haymitch, what the hell are you doing?" she whispers urgently, her hair falling out in random tendrils as she leans out. She pulls out a bony white hand and with appalling speed, grabs me by the front collar of my shirt and heaves me closer.

I can feel her breath on me now, every line and every curve of her lean face clearer to me than ever before.

"You could have woken up my parents-,"

"I couldn't sleep,"

For once, I am telling the truth.

She stops, the end of her sentence hanging in the air as if it had been running through a pasture, now teetering on the edge of a cliff. Her lips part slightly, and the way her eyes run over me is almost comical. The hardened expression, the tight clutch of her jaw begins to soften as we spend a few moments in this locked embrace.

"Come in," she smiles, leaning back in as she extends a hand. I take it gratefully, although only partially using it to haul myself in. I take hold in a deep crevice in the side of the wall with my foot, and with a burst of energy, fling myself quietly inside.

I almost stumble, but quickly catch myself before Vesper notices. I stand still, rubbing my eyes as the blood surges into my head. Evidently, that had taken a lot more out of me than I had expected, more likely because I have dulled myself with the sweet destruction of whiskey.

I regain my composure and before Vesper can question me, I lean forward and pull her towards me. I kiss her without hesitation, holding her to me as if I am trying to amalgamate the two of us into one being. I wish to remain like this forever, melded into this spot and defiant against any force that dares comes to challenge me.

Suddenly, I feel the flutter of Vesper's eyelashes against my cheek and before I know it, she has broken away.

"Your breath," She says, pulling away and her nose wrinkled, "Have you been drinking?"

I look at my feet.

"Maybe," I mutter. I do not look into her eye, half out of shame and half out of exhaustion. I know how displeasing drinking is to Vesper, I can remember all too well the pinched expressions and the twitches of her nose whenever a drunkard happened upon her path. It never was about any aesthetic disgust, although the disgruntled and ruined conditions of most drunkards who crawl the Seam is enough to put off even the most insanitary of beings, but rather the sharp pang of sorrow that this hobbling creature had once been a man.

I slowly look up, a lop sided smile on my face. She tilts her head to the side, but much to my surprise she does not scold me.

"Don't make a habit of it," she tuts, but rubs her hand reassuringly on my arm.

"I won't. I'll-I'll keep it under control," I say.

I clutch her hand, rubbing my fingers absently on her knuckles.

The house is eerily empty, the only movement coming from the flapping curtains of the open kitchen window. An infested rat scuttles past, a rabid counterpart madly dashing after it. The latter manages to gain on the former, pouncing on it with an almost feline spring, before proceeding to tear the squealing vermin apart.

So this is what it has come to; rats eating rats.

Vesper frowns at the bloody scene, but she does not move to shoo the murderous parasite away or clean up the aftermath, for he is doing a perfectly good job at that. Once that tiny spectacle of excitement disintegrates into the nothingness of the night, the house returns to its quiet solace.

At the back of the house, though it is incredibly faint, I can hear the quiet snores of her parents.

I bite my lip, observing a home I had not step foot in for a while. None of it has changed, although I had not been expecting much. The furniture is still rotten with moth infestation, the mouldy floorboards still creak with every tiny step or shift of movement, and the stagnant rain water from the thatched roof still drips slowly to the world below.

I look to perhaps the only usable chair in the entire house, about to seat myself in it when I realise there is already an occupant.

It's a tiny thing, dirty and worn, with a popped button eye and saggy little ears. I can see from here the numerous wounds from which its dust infested stuffing peeps through. But I smile, thinking of the little boy whose arms this plaything had spent so long in.

"Where's Conan?" I whisper, turning to her.

Still smiling, Vesper takes my hand and begins to pull me into the hallway. She puts a finger to lips and I am careful not to make too much noise as she leads me through. She turns a corner, and carefully pushes away a splintered wooden door.

It is a tiny bedroom, a pathetic excuse for mattress stuffed in the corner of the room, a tiny mound heaving upwards and downwards upon it. I leave Vesper at the door and make way to the figure, seating myself carefully beside it.

Conan has grown even more than what I can remember, even if I had left not long ago. His limbs seem longer and his features more pronounced, but as I cautiously peel away his blue-black blanket, I can see all of that growth and strength had simply been the product of illusion.

He is as brittle and fragile as an elder. The pronunciation of his features I had mistaken as a sign of maturity, is more so the consequence of fatigue and malnutrition. He sighs heavily; I can hear the rattle of his strained breath in his parched throat. He tosses a little as he whimpers in his sleep.

I am over come with bitterness, a deep sorrow that wrestles with the pain and the anger in my heart. He's just a boy, Conan, not that much older than Symon and yet here he lies, delicate yet equally vulnerable like a chick left stranded in a nest.

It's not fair.

Fighting back tears, I gently run my hand over his feverish forehead and instantly, he springs to life. He at first, looks to me in fear, no doubt dazed and confused from his broken sleep. He almost draws back, his eyes darting back and forth as his childish mouth readies to scream at the top of his lungs.

But he stops, squints his eyes as he clutches my hand. He stares right at me, studying me as if I were a foreign and exotic creature. He realises, and his eyes instantly light up, his excitement barely containable as he flaps my clutched hand int he air repeatedly.

"Haymitch-!" He begins to say, his tone alarmingly raised.

"Shh," I hush, holding a finger to my lips.

He hastily nods in agreement, before throwing his arms around me. I am more than happy to do the same.

"Haymitch!" he whispers against my chest, "You won!"

I rest my head atop his. "Yeah,"

He pulls away and with evident pain, but a sentiment easily outweighed by his thrill, he props himself onto his knees.

"I watched you every day, you know," he tells me eagerly, his little head bobbing up and down, "And every night I'd make a wish that you'd live,"

"Thanks, buddy," I say, kissing him on the forehead, "Looks like it worked,"

He lets out a small, yet restrained laugh before embracing me once more.

"Are you staying over?" he asks.

"I dunno," I shrug. I look to Vesper, who I see is wiping tears from her eyes. I smile at her and offer a wink, one she waves away light-heartedly. "Depends on what your sister says,"

I am by every means welcome in the Beckett household. But only in the daylight when the sun can light all pathways and when the vigilant eyes of her older brother and father have full access to me.

Vesper stutters, shaking and nodding her head at the same time. Conan de-tangles himself from my arms and carefully eases himself off the mattress. He stands before her, draped in his blanket and his head titled up.

"Please Vesper..." Conan whines, pouting his lip.

"You know it's not up to me," she says uneasily.

"Mom and Dad won't mind," he says matter-of-factly. He looks to me. "They won't,"

I start to smile, but immediately frown as Conan begins to convulse. His little body quivers violently as he coughs over and over again, spittle flying from his lips as his throat begins to dry from the assault. His eyes roll into the back of his head, and as Vesper falls to her knees to catch, I too am beside him.

Vesper clutches his face as he convulses even more violently than before, panic settling in her eyes as she struggles to regain him. I too, cannot mask my own fear; feeling less and less the Quarter Quell Victor as I helplessly hold this feeble boy.

"Conan..." Vesper whispers, her voice choked with pain, "Please..."

I prop him up gently, steadying him against me as the fit begins to fade and his conscience returns.

He shivers against me, and I reminded of the time I once held a dying mockingjay in my hand.

Conan lets out an almighty cough, this time a glob of blood dripping down his filthy vest. Vesper immediately grabs a handkerchief and dabs away at the trailing blob like a doting mother.

He sighs contently, pushing away Vesper's hand as he settles himself.

"That was fun, wasn't it?" he says, a dry smile on his tiny lips.

Vesper makes a blubbering noise, pinching him gently on the arm as she gets back onto her feet. She folds to bloodied handkerchief and still dabbing at the wetness of her cheeks, she disappears into the hallway.

"Vesper's such a scaredy-cat," says Conan sleepily, as I pick him up. I hold him at my hip, wrapping my arm tentatively around his meatless body. Already, I can feel his body stilling, shutting down as it prepares to rest again.

I lay him upon the mattress, tucking the blanket beneath his body and up to his chin, so that he appears to be wrapped in faceless cocoon.

I tickle his nose and he murmurs contently. "You can sleep with me, Haymitch,"

Feeling a little light headed from the episode, I too leave Conan's bedroom and head in the direction I saw Vesper leave in. I close the door carefully behind me and as I proceed down the hall, I can see Vesper's doubled over figure at the sink of their kitchen.

I stand behind and wrap my arms her. She is shivering, moaning a little as she struggles to contain her tears. She sniffs, allowing herself to relax in my arms.

"It's alright, Vesper," I say, although I saw the words merely for a temporary comfort; I know it will never be alright.

"He's just so _sick_," she sobs, "And there's nothing I can do..."

I hold her for a while, allowing her to release her pain and stress. She quivers, much like Conan had done, shoulders shaking and knees buckling.

She finally begins to calm down, sighing a deep breath before wiping away her tears with the heel of her palm.

"_You _don't mind do you?" I ask into her hair, "If I stay over?"

"Of course I don't," She sniffs, but I can almost hear her smile.

"Good to hear,"

I hold her tighter, pressing her against me. I begin to trail slow kissers down her neck, pushing the collar of her blouse out of the way, revealing the smooth boulder of her shoulder.

She instantly shrugs out of my grip, turning around in my arms as she faces me. She turns her nose up, popping a cube of crumbly cheese into my mouth before I can protest.

"No funny business though," she laughs quietly, tutting and cheeks still gleaming with tears, "The last thing we need is for you to be tossed out into the snow by my parents with your pants down. Victor or not,"

"What?" I chuckle, "Surviving the Games doesn't warrant me to have my way?" I hold my arms out to my sides, a feigned expression of bemusement.

She shakes her head dismissively, chucking a wet cloth at my face as she settles her hands on her hips.

"Shut up, Haymitch,"

* * *

**AN: Alright, well that was relatively hasty and I am acutely aware that there are many mistakes of the grammatical, punctual, spiritual, expression kind but ONE DAY, I assure you I'll fix. I just had to update! Many thanks to ArtemisKey and limelight24 for reviewing!**


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